Light came from her dress. And a little girl’s stars shone from her umbrella. And tiny tendrils of lambency flowed from a thousand other places. Whereever she went, she was their light. Are they posing for me, or is this just how they are? It’s how they are. Things with their own light are the easiest to capture.
If light and time are truly tied, and I think they are, then they are still there. They are still holding hands in the playa. She still has her lights about her and his fingers still hold around her waist like a tightly-strung petticoat.
A ship lays half-buried in the desert beyond. It lays freshly launched upon the ocean. It lays broken and scattered under miles of earth. They always move on it, beside it, above it, their light is like a thousand stars on ceiling of a little girl’s room, it falls quickly like happy-tears onto the desert oasis below.
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